Never Let Me Go
by Meowbowwow
Summary: Protective John. Johnlock and Mystrade. How Lestrade and John cope when Sherlock's And Mycroft's mother passes away and out boys are as cold as ever.


How's Sherlock doing? - MH  
How's Sherlock doing what? - JW  
I thought you'd know by now. Our mother passed away. Take care of him, won't you? - MH

John had to read the message twice for it to actually sink in. He had been planning to get a bite before the patients started flooding in. Flu was in the air and quite literally so but John was only aware of a general buzz around him, doors opening, people going out, shuffling of feet, chiming of bells. The sounds that are usually tuned out became suddenly sharp as knives, his heart drummed in his chest. Sherlock.

"Sarah, erm, could I have a word?" he looked at the patient she was with apologetically and motioned her to come out for a minute. The best thing about Sarah was the way he didn't need to tell about how he was feeling.  
"Is he hurt?" was the first question she asked, her eyes searching but always warm.  
"No. I mean, not in that way. His mother passed away, I need to be with him." He was looking at his feet and anywhere else but at Sarah. Truth was, even after years in the army and watching people die on a daily basis, John had never been comfortable with death. And this, the news brought back memories of the funeral of his own mother. He felt guilty for not visiting her more often, guilty at now having been able to take care of Harry like she'd have wanted him to, guilty for everything. He pushed those thoughts away as Sarah gently put her hand on his arm, looking at him and nodding.

How is he? - MH  
Fine, surprisingly. Nothing different - GL  
Did John arrive yet? - MH  
Nopes. How are you doing, Myc? - GL  
Fine - MH  
The case isn't that important, you want to meet up for lunch? - GL  
No, I'll be ok. Keep an eye on Sherlock, at least till John arrives - MH  
I will. I'll see you tonite? - GL  
Yes - MH  
Take care, Myc - GL

Lestrade ran his fingers through his hair. It was almost impossible to deal with the enigma that were the Holmes brothers. Mycroft was way different from Sherlock. With Sherlock, he knew what to say when to get what he wanted but Mycroft, he ran deeper than anyone he had ever known. It was like there were two people seamlessly fitted together inside Mycroft Holmes and you could never tell which one was stronger. Lestrade knew, obviously but at times like these, he wondered if he really did. Someone else would have wanted Greg with them right now and even after all the show the Holmes boy put of not caring, he knew how close they had been to their mother. And yet... He thought he would just take off and surprise Mycroft but the moment the idea enetered his head, he pushed it away. Mycroft didn't like surprises, not of this kind anyways. He wanted Greg to be there for Sherlock.

"Lestrade, you are slower than usual, did you stay with Anderson for too long? It's contagious, his stupidity, you know." Sherlock strutted inside his office, not bothering to knock as usual and flopping down on Lestrade's chair. He looked normal, there wasn't a hint of sadness on his face. It almost made Lestrade angry to see him going on about the case like nothing had happened when Mycroft was killing himself, trying to ensure Sherlock was fine. Sherlock was fine, more than fine. He would have said that it was a façade had he not known Sherlock any better. Sherlock went on and on about the case and Lestrade listened to him but he wasn't following. Suddenly Sherlock got up and went out of the room. Lestrade didn't know why, heck he was too tired of everything. Trying to understand Mycroft, working with Sherlock, the damn murder which was taking even Sherlock longer than usual. Everything was fucked up.

"Lestrade, are you quite alright?" Sherlock peeked in, confusion written all over his face.  
"Yes, but are you?" Lestrade said, his voice edgier than he'd wanted it to be.  
"I am fine, why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock replied, his usual tone but something had shifted. His voice was lower and he looked a little angry, perhaps that Lestrade had suggested him to be anything less than fine. There had been serial killings, of course Sherlock Holmes was fine. This was something different, he hadn't had this much intellectual stimulation since the cabbie and the pills. Four patches adorned his pale arms, hidden in his sleek black suit.  
"Nothing, is there something you need?" Lestrade replied, looking at his phone as an excuse to not look at Sherlock.  
"I just told you that I need to visit the crime scene again." Sherlock's voice shook with impatience.

Lestrade got up, sighing. It was going to be a long day.

Where are you? - JW  
Yard - SH  
Why didn't you tell me? -JW  
Tell you what? - SH

John made an impatient sound that made the cabbie look at him with concern. They had been together for a year now - flatmates, colleagues, best friends, lovers. The graph had been drastic and John had expected to have heard the news from Sherlock, it wasn't too much to ask for, was it? And this, the feigned indifference. Thinking hard, John had to admit that if anyone would be so unperturbed by his mother's death, it would be Sherlock. But even Mycroft had seem worried. And he knew Sherlock much better than John so his concern had to have some merit. He clawed at his knee angrily, Sherlock was bloody impenetrable. After all they had gone through...it made John angry. He could understand the mask Sherlock wore for the rest of the world, whatever logic there was behind it, John could take it. But why continue the performance in front of John. Hadn't he proven his loyalty enough?

They reached the yard and John got out, paying the cabbie and quickly making his way in. Lestrade's office was empty and as he was whipping his phone out, making to message the DI, he saw Anderson and Donovan bent over the computer, working together.

"Where's Greg? And Sherlock?" he asked them, putting the phone back in.  
"They went together, to the crime scene, freak had some more investigation to do, apparently." Donovan replied.  
John ignored her and decided that it would be better if he asked Sherlock where he was instead of wasting his time with these two.  
"He was normal, if you were wondering. The whole world could die and yet, Sherlock Holmes wouldn't give a flying fuck, especially when there is a serial killer on the loose. Oh, no. You should have seen him, John. Strutting around, happy. HAPPY! He found a clue and wanted to go to the crime scene immediately. Freak!" Donovan spat and John spun around so hard that he thought he's get a crick in the neck. Donovan backed off, her eyes wide as John's face was inches away from hers.  
"Don't you dare call him a freak! If I hear you use that word again, I swear to god I will put a knot in your tongue. Go fuck Anderson or have a threesome with his wife, I don't care if you get away with your shit around Sherlock and Anderson. YOU will bloody well watch your mouth when I am around," John said, his voice dangerously low and fists shaking in anger. He really didn't know if it were Sally's statements that had made him lash out or the betrayal he was feeling at Sherlock not even thinking him important enough to inform him.

He walked out fuming, leaving them both rooted on the spot, hailing a cab for Baker Street.

Where are you - SH  
221B. You? - JW  
On my way to the woman's house. The murderer smokes, need ash sample - SH  
Okay - JW  
Hungry - SH  
I'll make some pasta, when are you going to be home? - JW  
1 hour - SH

"So, you are okay, then?" Lestrade's voice was low, he didn't want Sherlock to hear the anger.  
"Yes, I am fine. Thanks for asking," Sherlock replied, sarcasm creeping into his voice as he impatiently craned his neck, trying to will the cabbie to go faster.  
"She was you mother, Sherlock, don't you feel any...pain,loss, anything?"  
"People die all the time, Lestrade." Sherlock's tone was eerily cold and detached. It almost seemed disrespectful of him to be talking like that, bad enough to make Lestrade lose his cool.  
"She wasn't people Sherlock, she was you mother! Do you even care about that?"  
Sherlock turned his face to look at Lestrade, his gaze piercing and even in his hot-headed state, Lestrade felt sympathy for all the criminals and dead bodies who had been subjected to that scrutiny. He wasn't angry,  
he was just observing Lestrade, his grey eyes scanning everything on his face.  
"I did care about her but now she's gone. I am not a person to mope around for dead people, Lestrade," Sherlock's tone was measured and calm.  
"Fuck you. And here we are, worrying away for poor Sherlock. Is Sherlock fine? Is he dealing with it well? Sherlock's not good with emotions. Handle Sherlock with care! Bloody nonsense, you are cold, Sherlock. I wonder how John manages to put up with you. Do you even tell him that you love him? Oh, wait, the better question would be - do you even love him?" Lestrade took a deep breath and turned his face away from Sherlock. He hadn't meant to be so harsh and he wasn't sure if these questions were directed at Mycroft or Sherlock. He just didn't know anymore. He wanted to go home and sleep away the day.

Sherlock had been quiet all through the outburst. He didn't reply, the silence clawed the air inside out. It was almost a relief when the cab halted and Lestrade saw the familiar crime scene. Before he could say anything, Sherlock was out and racing towards the house, his coat swishing in his wake. Lestrade followed him slowly, breathing heavily in the fresh air. His throat was dry and a little hoarse from screaming at Sherlock. He closed his eyes and leaned against a tree in the garden, feeling the wind on his face, taking everything in. There had been a knot in his stomach, all through the day after Mycroft had told him, in a tone very familiar to Sherlock's, that "people die all the time, I am fine. Don't fret". It had been hurtful but he had said nothing, he thought that maybe, when they meet at night, things would be okay. And yet, now, the knot had dissolved when he had screamed at Sherlock. It was weird, coming face to face with your emotions.

Lestrade's thoughts were broken when Sherlock walked out, 2 small packets of cigarette ash in his hand. He wordlessly handed one of them to Lestrade and walked inside the empty cab, not looking behind, leaving Lestrade alone.

John was just finished with the pasta and was putting the lid on when he heard Sherlock's footsteps. The door opened with a creak and Sherlock walked in. He threw his coat on the couch and sat down and rushed to his bedroom. In a few minutes, he came out with his scarlet robe and his cotton pajamas. Normal. Perfectly normal. He opened John's laptop and started typing away, his concentration on the screen, oblivious to a certain John Watson who was looking at him.

"Tea, Sherlock? The pasta's almost done."  
"Mmm," hummed Sherlock, still not taking his eyes away from the screen.  
John sighed and put the kettle on, tasting the pasta and declaring it edible enough. Sherlock hadn't eaten in 4 days and it was John's responsibility that the only mean the man had was good enough, even if the man didn't care. He poured the tea in their only two mugs and walked up to Sherlock, just when he was closing the laptop.

"Found the ash."  
"Hmm...the case is over then?"  
"Yeah, almost, I just mailed Lestrade the details of the murderer. They'll catch him by the evening."  
"Sherlock..." John started, but stopped when Sherlock steepled his fingers in the usual manner, his pose when he was thinking very deeply. He looked paler than usual, his eyebrows were knitted together and his hair seemed even wilder. There were 4 patches on his arm, John saw as the robe's arms fell around them lazily. He knew better than to talk to Sherlock when he was so absorbed in his mind palace or God knows what, but he couldn't help himself as he reached out and gently mussed his curly hair. Sherlock's shoulders stiffened initially but he leaned into the contact, a soft sigh escaping him as John gently threaded his fingers through his hair. He sat down on the arm of the couch, massaging Sherlock's scalp in small circles as Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John.

And John knew, Mycroft's concern, the normalcy, the cold detachment. Every angry thought he had felt throughout the day melted away shamelessly as Sherlock looked at him, his eyes vulnerable. John's heart ached looking at him like that. Sherlock gently held his arm and moved John onto his lap, letting his arms envelop the smaller man and hiding his face in John's chest. John held him like that, feeling Sherlock's body rock in small sobs as he kissed his head. He felt ashamed but more than anything, he felt as if his heart would fall out of his chest when Sherlock sobbed freely into his arms.

John cupped his face and wiped his tears away, putting their foreheads together and feeling Sherlock's warmth seep into him.  
"She was brilliant you know. Maybe not like father or us but she was brilliant in her own way," Sherlock said softly, eyes still closed and voice shaking.  
"Yes, of course she was." John planted a chaste kiss on Sherlock's lips, trying to put in words how sorry he felt.  
"I do love you, you know. I am - sorry," Sherlock replied, breaking the kiss, fresh tears flowing out of his grey eyes now.  
"I know, Sherlock. Don't be sorry, please -" Sherlock stopped him.  
"Lestrade thinks that you - that - you really deserve someone better, John. My mother did too, I don't know, I'm not usually sentimental, you know me, I can't help but remember all the time I didn't call her. She kept calling Mycroft and me for Christmas and we couldn't make it. Ever. There was always something important, one case or another. I...I'm not a machine. I did love her. I love you too. I just don't say it that often. I have never...felt the need to keep saying it. I thought you know and I thought she knew too. Yet, it pains me to think that she died not knowing how much she meant to me...and Mycroft." Sherlock's breath came in short gasps as John kissed his tears away.  
"Shh, don't think like that. She knew you loved him, you were her son. She knew, like I do. And who cares what Lestrade thinks, isn't it enough that I am telling you how happy and satisfied I am. I love you, Sherlock. Yes, you make me angry. I can't lie to you but you are the best man I have never known." He let Sherlock tuck his face inside his chin, his breath grazed his clavicle as John stroked his back, gently. He kept whispering nothings, making sure Sherlock knew how important he was to John.

They sat like that for hours, decades, perhaps. Sherlock eased into the couch so that John lay down the length of it, Sherlock's long form wrapped tightly around him. The room darkened and their shadows dissolved in pitch blackness, the hum of London sounded distant. Nothing mattered, nothing at all. "Everything is fine. I am here," John whispered, not sure if Sherlock heard him as Sherlock snuggled closer to him, feeling more secure than he ever had.

Would it be asking too much to ask you to come now instead of tonite - MH  
I need you, Greg. I really do - MH

Greg Lestrade picked up his coat and almost ran out of his office, the message replaying itself in his head.

I am coming. Everything is fine, I am here - GL

**Sorry for any typos, I didn't get time to proofread. Please bring them to my notice so that I can edit the doc. Thank you for reading, leave a review so that I can know if you liked it or not.  
xoxo**


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